A Writing Prompt: ‘I Wish You Were Here’

Dear Dad,

The wind tonight is stronger than it was yesterday, that the moon felt less bold to shine like it did yesterday. There is not a star I spot in the sky and the neighbour's gen is not turned on. The day had been spent blowing hot air on our bodies with hope to dry the sweat that wouldn't stop dripping. We've prayed for rain for several days and worked by faith to set the black drum in place so we could fetch some water when it does fall, but have been met serially with disappointment. There are only five mango fruits left on the tree, waiting to ripen. Mum made a feast of white soup and fufu for us tonight. I regretted eating as much as my belly became bloated that I had to take a walk around the house till I felt at ease. We set the plastic white chairs outside to sit and enjoy the air of the night before we make way to bed, and all I could think of as the wind caused the old green gate to creak and the NEPA wires to dance was that I wish you were here. So we could sit, all six of us, in the quiet of the night, admiring the pretty canvas the dark cloud made behind the palm tree in the Yackson's compound and looking through the holes in the fence at the uncompleted building opposite our home. I wished of all the places you could be, that you were here like you used to be when we first moved here, on mats, chatting away time and eating the crackers biscuit you bought on your way home.